


The red strings of Fate

by captain_emmajones



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, Kinda, Soulmate AU, cssv, lotta angst, of course i'll do it even though you are my soulmate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-15
Updated: 2017-02-15
Packaged: 2018-09-24 15:14:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9767642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captain_emmajones/pseuds/captain_emmajones
Summary: The Red String of Fate exists, and only some people have the ability to see the strings, and these people can actually cut strings and knot other people’s strings in to alter the soulmate laws. Your best friend’s wedding is tomorrow and they know you can see the string. They ask you to help them defy the laws of the universe and help them be with the person they love even though they know that’s not their soulmate. You know they love each other so much so you help them, even though the person your best friend’s marrying/your best friend is your soulmate.





	

Experience has taught Emma Swan that sometimes, most of the time, love happens to not be enough. Love, not matter how fierce, cannot help but kneel to life.

Human’s devotion does not overcome Fate.

(Fate cares little that the shade of his eyes is still printed over her heart, this warm chocolate with green sparkles, that his perfume causes her to stop mid sentence, a lump in her throat, that her entire being yearns for him and he is gone.)

.

When she falls in love with Graham, she knows she must ensure their future.

She knows she must face Fate with her hands fisted, jaw clenched, and her heart on her sleeves.

.

His name is Doctor Jones. There are few people like him: he is able to see the red strings of Fate, and play with them.

“He is the best on this matter, Emma,” assures her Elsa, a warm hand over her anguished heart. “He will make sure everything goes just the way you want it to.”

If his science is admitted as one per see, Emma has always been one to be sceptical.

Therefore, as she stands in front of a lovely wooden door where golden letters give away the name of her doctor, she is frowning furiously. A so-called slogan causes her to cringe and roll her eyes: “A man/woman unwilling to fight for what he/she wants, deserves what he/she gets.”

It is a beautiful day of summer, the breeze a tender and lukewarm embrace against her bare arms. In the park surrounding the cabinet, birds are singing playfully. She cannot seem to feel as light; there is this heavy burden on her shoulders, the thought that she might fail.

There’s bitterness on the tip of her tongue.

“Miss Swan,” a British accent cuts her in her thought, and she looks up to discover a friendly smile, “you may come in.”

.

He smells good, spices and leather and something childish, a little bit of chocolate. There’s something very soft in the waves of his gaze, a rest of childhood at the corner of his eyes, while the fullness of his pink lips seems to give away innocence. It contrasts with the arsh lign of his brows, with how absent his gaze can get, a grey veil prevailing over azul.

His voice, too, is disconcertingly tender as he explains to her the extent of her demand with a smile she cannot quite comprehend. 

“...it will be inalterable. Your life will be forever tangled together, and of course, you will-” his tone gets unsure as he quits her gaze to look at his shoes. 

There are roses on the desk between them, and their hue is reflected on his cheeks. 

She frowns, licks her lips. (Finds him endearing.)

“I will, doctor?” 

She swallows as he pours his eyes in hers again; they seem lost and agare, and she wonders why she feels so connected to this stranger.

“ -you will lose any possibility to share your life with your true soulmate.” 

The words ache despite their familiarity. A smile wrecks her face. “I have thought about it, don’t worry.” 

I have thought about it, and I would rather have this peacefulness in my chest rather than the fire of soulmates. I do not want it nor need it. 

He nods. “Aye, I understand.” 

.

He has always been able to see them, the red strings, vibrant links ruining lives since the beginning of time. He had just assumed everyone was able to. 

It is a gift, sometimes, when he crosses the paths of a young couple with sun in their air and love in their smile, and they form a lovely embrace. It makes his heart smile, and his step lighter. 

It is however a burden when she looks at him with her clear eyes, the freckles dusted over her nose, and her weary smile, and he sees how tightly they are wrapped around her, and she’s asking him to cut them forever. 

A bit bitter, the truth. 

Being able to see them does not keep him from rising up against Fate, from swallowing this scream of utter wrath, for he has met her and lost her in the very same day. 

. 

It’s a shitty day. 

The sky is heavy with clouds, and it smells like humidity and sorrow, and he is pissed off because his bloody car won’t start. 

“Bloody hell,” he mumbles, frowns as rain comes to meet him with a coy smile, swallows down an insult. 

His eyes fall on the coffee shop at the other side of the road, and the thought of a hot beverage sooths his mind. 

.

Passing this door feels like coming home, and it appears a gentle hand took a weight off his shoulders. 

He inspires. It smells like vanilla, and hot cocoa, and this perfume both foreign and familiar. The walls are painted with a lovely tint of crème, and the tables are made of wood and-

“Doctor Jones! What are you doing here?” 

He hopes she does not discern in his smile utter pain as he turns around to face her. 

“Miss Swan, what a lovely coïncidence!” 

He discovers her as beautiful as ever, with her high ponytail and her decontracted grin, and he is all the more furious. 

(The red strings reuniting them are burning red, and they savagely tickle his skin.)

.

Of bloody course, everything is so easy with her. And right. 

And as she laughs while pouring him some of her ‘darkest coffee’, he thrusts his nails in the wooden counter separating them to swallow a cry. 

“I’ve always wanted people to feel at ease here. You know, a little bit like home.” 

(Her fingers brush with his as she hands him his drink. The string vibrate, appear overwhelmingly crimson.)

He drinks of mouthful of his exquisite beverage, I’ve been to France and they do not make it better than you do, mostly to hide his flusterement. 

“Aye, I think I see.” 

Her lips lift then, and it shatters him. Her features give away a certain type of confusion as she taps her knuckles over the counter. 

“I have no idea why I’m telling you this...This is so not-me.” 

And she shrugs it off, probably feels a bit tipsy. 

“It’s the whole doctor thing, love. Eases the confession, doesn’t it?” 

It’s the whole soulmate thing, love. 

.

She watches him leave, a sunflower blooming in her chest. He abandons behind him a hint of his cologne. 

A breath. She bites her lower lips to hold back a smile. 

.

He fights against Fate as hard as possible, uses all of his inner strength not to go back and see her. 

He resists a whole week, thinks of Graham, Graham whom she described with utter love and affection, Graham and his chocolate brown eyes and his kind smile, Graham who’s definitely not a morning person, you should see him in the morning, a monster, her laugh full of happiness, Graham whom she wants to marry and so she will. 

He pushes the doors of A place like Home on a sunny friday morning. (He cannot even blame the weather for giving up.)

Fate stands in the doorway, a knowing smile on its lips. You might see my doings but you cannot stop them, can you, Jones? 

Her back is facing him as he enters; she’s piling fresh oranges in a small baskett. Her leather jacket hangs loosely from the counter.

“Good morning Miss Swan,” he humes, watches her startle before switching to face him.

He does not miss how happy she seems to see him, how her eyes open wide and a grin overtakes her features.

“Doctor-”

He cuts her, “you should call me Killian, love.” He regrets it right away, he did not bloody think, damnit…

And then, the two syllables, murmured with a lot of caution, “Killian,” and the coyness around her eyes, “I wasn’t expecting you to come back.” He hears in her tone her natural defiance. 

A small sigh. “I had to come back, you make the most wonderful coffee in the world.” 

.

And so it goes. 

“I’ll see you next friday, right?” 

It is breathtaking, to see the ice around her heart melt at his touch, to see her eyes shine brighter, to breath in her scent, something flowery and touching and vanilla and herself. 

Their exchanges remain friendly. He is careful not to cross any ligne, for he knows he might be her soulmate, but her love for Graham is true and palpable and pure, and who is he to put himself between them. 

He meets him on their second official appointment. 

“Very nice to meet you, doctor,” greets him a warm voice.

Fate’s hand turns a burning knife into his chest. He cannot hate him. How bloody easier it would have been. 

.

It is a torment, to see them together. 

Their hands brushing, how he kisses her forehead, the little sparkles in their gaze, how far away their strings are.  
“So, you’ll be cutting the strings on our wedding, is that alright for you?” 

To smile, profusely, ardently, chuckle even a bit. “I’m always open to free food.”

And to mourn one’s heart, to bury it with a lot of care. 

.

He makes the most of their days left. 

Pays her a visit twice a week.

“You told me you live next to your cabinet right?” she asks him one night, when he is the only one left and there is a candle burning between them, and he bloody wants to kiss her.

He nods. “Aye, why?” He does not see the trap coming.

“Then,” an hesitation in her fierce tone, “ why-why are you coming here, it’s not the closest coffee shop in town.” 

There’s no smile on her face, fatality reigns there, and he does not quite comprehend her words. 

“To see you, love.” 

His spontaneity takes her breath away, leaves her stoic. Her jaw clenches, she gazes at her crisped hands over the counter.

“Good.” 

.

He decides to end their torment two weeks before the wedding by fleeing. By not seeing her anymore. 

“Your sit is cold, Killian.” She texts him the next week. 

Knuckles white over his bedsheets, he offers her silence.

.

Their last appointment is a day before their marriage. 

Which is why, he does not expect to see her four days beforehand. Looking completely devastated.

“Hey. I kind of need the doctor right now.”

Her under eyes are frighteningly purple, and there’s no leather jacket on her back. 

“Come in, love.” 

She looks like a storm, seems bloody disturbed. Her boots leave muddy marks on his carpet as she tramples in his cabinet.

Her eyes cannot seem to be fixed, she’s shaking with wrath.

“Are you alright there, Swan?” 

Her hands are fisted on her hips; she smells like rain. She refuses to face him, stubbornly looks at his desk.

“Why didn’t you told me?!” she attacks right away, and her voice is vibrating with anger. 

His heart misses a beat. Everything becomes overwhelming, her perfume amidst humidity, the blondeness of her hair under his ceiling light, the red strings flickering in the dimn. 

“Who told you?” 

She’s quick to shift towards him, swollen eyes and red nose. “I figured it out myself, I’m smart enough, thank you very much.” 

He sighs. She’s unreachable, isolated in her own torment.

“I had no right to intervene in your life,” he explains quietly.

Her fist stammers the wood of his desk. “But you did!” 

There’s a sob curled up in her throat and her lips form a severe ligne. 

“I had the right to know, Killian.” 

He does not notice the warm pearls streaming down his face, completely engulfed by her. “I know, love.” 

She licks her lips, her ache is palpable. “I’m sorry.” 

.

He does not come to the wedding.

.  
“And see, doctor, I really really like her but…”

“Elsa,” a sigh, his hand over his forehead to ease the tension, “I have already told you that I’m no Meetic.com. If you like this girl, then go ahead, tell her.” He swallows, it’s bitter, everything is bitter, “Otherwise, you might miss her.” 

She’s staring at him, he can feel it, and he looks up to discern empathy in her blue eyes.

“She did not marry him, you know.” 

“What are you even talking about, Elsa. I’m-”

Her slim palm finds his. “Hey, I’m serious. Emma did not marry Graham.” 

Oh Fate, what are you bloody up to? 

. 

It’s a beautiful day of July, and it is friday. 

Passing this door feels like coming home, and it appears a gentle hand took a weight off his shoulders. 

He inspires. It smells like vanilla, and hot cocoa, and this perfume both foreign and familiar. The walls are painted with a lovely tint of crème, and the tables are made of wood and-

“Killian, what a lovely coïncidence.” 

And to feel completely and perfectly at the right place.


End file.
